


Rabiot

by IohannaFacTotum



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Fear, Gen, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:15:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IohannaFacTotum/pseuds/IohannaFacTotum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than a decade after Dr. Lecter's incarceration at Will Graham's hands, Will think's he's safe and enjoys a quiet retirement alone on Sugarloaf Key. As time passes even after Lecter escapes his prison, Will begins to feel secure again, hoping that Lecter has maybe forgotten about him after so long. He could not be more wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rabiot

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this between 5-7am with zero sleep, so I profusely apologize in advance for everything.
> 
> I took a LOT of liberties with the canon and I hope that doesn't interfere with the flow or anything. Feedback would be much appreciated. Enjoy!

Even after he retired, Will Graham’s mind had found other things to wrap itself around. It was a busy mind and couldn’t be satiated by a hobby, which was what Jack kept advising Will to pick up.

The news was what had been haunting him these past several years. For a while, he had tried to steer himself from anything that might beckon him back to his old life. News stories had been like coiling fingers trying to coax him back into the minds of deranged murderers, and he had found it particularly interesting to follow the details of Buffalo Bill’s case, but only after he’d been alerted that Dr. Lecter had somehow been involved.

When he heard of Lecter’s masterful and gory escape, however, Will turned off his television and hadn’t bought a newspaper since.

Jack kept him somewhat updated – when they found a lead on where Lecter might be he called Will to let him know how safe he was or how careful he must be, but mostly Will preferred to stay in blissful – or in this case petrified – ignorance.

That was until one warm, midsummer night in Miami, his doorbell at the house on Sugarloaf Key rang at nearly 11 pm.

Will hurried to the door quietly and peeked out of the peephole. He saw nothing but dark, save for the porch lights lighting the few thin and overgrown shrubs lining the house. He cautiously unlocked the deadbolt and pried the door open, looking around the yard, but again saw nothing until he looked at his feet. On the worn welcome rug sat a small wicker basket, and in that sat a slim bottle of expensive French wine and two wine glasses.

He glanced around again as he reached down and took the basket in his hand. He never once took his eyes off of the endless dark as he receded into the house and closed and locked the door behind him.

He set the basket on the kitchen table and he stared at it as if it might start to give him answers telepathically. As much as he wanted to deny it, and as much as he told himself it wasn’t true, he knew who the basket was from.

What he didn’t know was _why._ Why Lecter had brought him a gift and, presumably, left. Why he had not come in to finish what he started more than a decade ago. The raised white scar stretching from Will’s left hip to his right rib cage ached with phantom pain at the thought.

Will stared at the basket, squinting his eyes as though that might enlighten him, and then he closed them. He imagined bringing the basket to the door. He could see it in his hands, see the concrete of the driveway beneath expensive Italian loafers.

_The wine is not a romantic one, I make sure to make that clear. It is, however, an apology. This is-_

Will scoffed at that train of thought. A sociopath apologizing for a self-preserving act over a decade old? Not only unlikely, but nigh impossible. Too much to hope for.

_I bring the gifts as a greeting, a quiet and polite and pleasant ‘hello’ to let him know that I am around and that my intentions are nothing short of friendly, if I pursue interaction at all. This is my –_

No, that wasn’t right either. It was closer to the mark, perhaps…

_-to let him know that my intentions… my intentions are my own and as hidden from him as ever, though I will appear polite as always. It is a scare tactic, at worst, a warning at best. This is my de-_

Will pounded a fist on the table in frustration. He wasn’t sure what it was about this that was so perplexing. He used to solve murders and catch serial killers with the same thought pattern, why was a wine basket so damn hard? Perhaps his “gift” as Jack liked to call it had gotten rusty over the years. Or maybe Hannibal was just as difficult to read now as he had always been, even for the special agent.

_Let’s try this again._

Will opened his eyes, studied the basket again. He snorted out a half laugh at his own stupidity. The hint didn’t lie in the wine.

_Two glasses… I leave two glasses, for two people. My intention is to return. The basket is a promise to meet again, and additionally, a promise to keep the lion in the room caged at least until after we’ve both had a glass of wine, but afterwards, who can say? I will keep myself alive and free, at all costs. This is my design._

Will opened his eyes again and stared at the basket with a newfound fear.

Hannibal would return, and everything beyond that was a mystery Will wouldn’t be able to solve until it was already over.

He found himself feeling lightheaded, dizzy. His scar ached and his stomach turned flips and his heart leapt to his throat and he steadied himself on the table. A few deep breathes and temple-rubs later, he stood again and double checked the doors and windows before heading upstairs.

Locking the bathroom door behind him, Will turned the shower on and ran cool water. He stepped into the bath and let the drops run down his face, through his hair, cool his face and calm his stomach. He took slow, deep, deliberate breaths and cupped his hands, splashing water onto his face and neck. Not more than ten minutes later, deciding he felt calm enough now to go to sleep (though there was no guarantee that a raven-feathered stag would not follow him until he woke), he turned the shower off and towel-dried his body and hair enough to slip on a pair of boxers and a thin white shirt.

He’d not gotten halfway back down the staircase before he knew something was wrong.

Will was a clumsy man, particularly when his mind was muddled by sleep, and so he’d fallen into the habit of leaving the small white light above the sink on before he went to bed. Although he had left it off before his calming shower, it was now on.

He continued down the stairs cautiously, trying to peek into the kitchen with no luck. He glanced to the small writing desk in the living room, where he kept a loaded handgun. His heart pounding in his ears and his breath quick and shallow, he dashed for it.

“No need for that, dear Will.”

Will tried to stop himself mid-stride but his body refused. He all but crashed into the desk but nevertheless he ripped the drawer open to find it empty. He turned to face the living room, the armchair where the voice had come from.

There he sat, glass of wine in hand and legs crossed neatly in front of him, a dark smile on his face. Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane had not been kind to him for these long years, and it told on his face.

Hannibal Lecter had not aged well. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes and he had gotten thinner. Wrinkles had cracked in the corners of his eyes and formed frown lines around his lips. There was something very different about him mentally as well, Will could sense it. It was not pleasant.

Will stood frozen like a deer in the face of bright headlights, his back to the desk. His heart pounded in his ears and although he could hear his rapid breathing, he felt as though he had stopped altogether.

They stood there in silence for several moments, staring each other down, sizing each other up. Or perhaps in Lecter’s case, thinking of the most apt dish in which to serve the man who had betrayed his trust and doomed him to a life without even a window. Finally, Hannibal’s face split in a toothy grin and he motioned to a chair beside him and a waiting glass of wine on the table between them.

“Come, Will. We have much to discuss.”


End file.
